The Clutter fades and the Writer dreams of...

Love;

Its fickle rivers run through

Like veins from the heart.

Memories breaking like twigs of forests

Fading along with the black of night

As silhouettes amongst the backdrop.

Life;

Its concrete division of breath

Like tears of a newborn child.

Truth and Catastrophe

Like the devastation to a wasteland

Words drifting on the whim of winds.

Laughter;

Its remedy to any ailment

With the subtlety of a thief at night.

The moon on either side

Silver lighting as the lime light truth,

And shadows dancing with the stars.

"The horizon will always be just over the ridge of sight; however, if one looks around with open eyes everything that one desires is right there at their feet. " - Authors note 50

Compassion

In the essence of all things, rest a single and tiny notion. So small and yet so important to the fabric of life that we as a people, rational human beings ignore it. Blocking it from our consciousness, our hearts; we build walls to keep it at bay; employ others to censure it, torture to harden and grasp at the gate that surrounds it. We forget this intricate part of the framework of nature and life, losing it amongst the areas we impede ourselves upon. Instead, we replace this impedance with leaving pieces of ourselves amongst the world we walk upon, leaving bits at every stop until nothing remains. When realization hits we tumble along a pointless and empty path of life. Void of the virtues which once presented themselves. Civilization is not immune to this sorrow filled phenomenon, from era to era this tumbling has occurred bringing us with it in its snow balling inflation. A broken soul push a shopping cart can contest better than the material gold in which we surround ourselves with, in a desperate attempt to collect the pieces which we have lost in the world.

So here we are now at the breaking point of life, spiraling downwards like a fish stuck in a whirlpool. There are few choices open to us: Our First is that we can fight the current valiantly denying we have lost anything until we finally collapse, going out like a turtle who has regressed into its shell; The Second we keel over and accept our deceitful defeat; The Last, however, we can rebuild ourselves amongst the current and adapting, leave the selfish desires, the feelings of envy and greed on the mantel pieces of the past. There are indeed very few things which all creatures, objects and beings have in common, this is one of those commonalities, and perhaps the only one.

It is the essence of all things, deserving of all things but forgotten by most and ignored by others.

"Enlightenment, knowledge, morality and intellect are the qualities which all strive to hold but only few accept the burden and the pain that comes with them. Sacrifice and compromises must be made to obtain success in our lives, our loves and our desires." - Authors note 05

The Burden and Sorrow of Writers Block...

In the silent screams of souls

Torn apart by their own emptiness

The breaking point of the withered rose

And the cries of the lost lover.

These are the darknesses that surround us

Which infect the clouds above

And rain down Angel's solemn hymns

The edges of the blade

That sink in past the rib cage.

The reason the moon shines brighter

Than the unrelenting sunshine;

He watches ink spill out of a pen

Like blood washing over paper.

The masterpiece resting within the mind,

Like the headstone of a Tomb.

He watches through a glass at a crow

Gazing like a judge in the wind

The voice that surrounds

Breath from the darkness

In flicking candle light silently speaking

Illuminating the eyes like memories

When the crow spreads its wings and flies away.

"Dear Followers,

It has been four weeks of suffering with the eternal burden of writers block. The wonders of school related stress has caused the arrogance of mental block. It had stolen, blocked and locked the words in an unreachable vault somewhere in the depths of my mind. This is a letter of apology to all of you lovely people. I hope you enjoyed the first thing after my writers block. Please forgive me for my absence, I hope that my writers block to have been annihilated and to return to at least one post every week or so. Enjoy.

Yours truly,

Invidus." - Authors Note 79

Inspiration

Here within the depth of the mind

Caverns extend endlessly, lit by torches

Casting shadows along the pathway, welcoming.

Voices whisper like a reckoning

Speaking each word carefully like the poet Virgil to Dante

As a stairwell emerges echoed in mists;

The silent hymns of the mind's breath.

With torch lights remembering candle flames

The stairwell spirals downward with a cold chill.

A room, still as a statue, full as the heart

At the edges of the stairs laying like a fateful servant

Surrounded in liquid crystal, an orchid upon a pedestal.

Shimmering in the darkness, growing amongst a void

Cold and desolate, she blooms unknown

A flower perfect beyond all else, the lover's muse.

For the final fleeting moment that face appears

As the Orchid blooms. Reflections of muse's memories

Locked away in that desolate place.

Forever more, this pen will scratch at the page

Ever seeking the silent songs of that Orchid

Resting in solitude like a Jewel encased in fire.

"...and life is nothing more than the conquest of random events over the unknown." - Authors note 81

Letters to Emotions - Re:Sorrow

Dear Sorrow,

Your liquid eyes shine like crystallized ice amongst the morning sun, gazing into the vulnerability of the soul. An eager entrance opens like a hand outstretched. Calming and gentle fingers wash over me like an ocean wave. your shadow looms over me like shade in sunlight. Illuminating flashes of incoherence crash ashore like sand trickling in a vase.

There is an admiration of chance and consequence followed by voices of choral guidance. A divine and ethereal lover brought to be by a single droplet of rain. With lips as soft as air brushing warm skin and eyes blinded by your eclipsing enlightenment. Skin caressing together slipping endlessly through memories. A liquid timeline, sliding through like a child tumbling down a hillside in winter. A fleeting desire drowned out by the music of the past.

For a moment, you allow me to witness the leaves change colour and shape. You allow me to see the season change, and just as a seed, an idea is planted within the soil of the mind. Broken shapes, play like a reel of film, depicting our lives on the walls. Falling images with nothing but abstract perception to bring stability.

Finally, you bring a sophistication to reality. A breaking point unsurpassed, a test brought solely by the gods themselves. Swollen like reflections in a mirror scattered on the floor. Auspiciously waiting for that final embrace of past promises fulfilled. A level of unknowable love in the blindness that you bring. That warming caress you sell as dreams bring relief. Your beauty unconquerable, like the territory of a tyrant.

The ramblings of a madman,

Sincerely yours.

"In those sinking moments we look towards one another for salvation." -Authors Note 02

Finally got Internet

I apologize for greatly neglecting my blog. For you few followers, I am working on a few more pieces, one including the continuation of Forgotten Places. I am hoping to have them up in the next couple of days. My roommate is also going to guest blog for me once a week, we are just deciding what day works best.

Right, the reason I haven't been posting anything is since I have just moved back to school and just yesterday got internet working. So school readings plus no internet have put a rather large damper on my blog posting. Fret not though, I will be back in full force, soon enough.

Lady of the Forest

Cool air whipped my face

Like whispering willows

Tell the secrets of the swelling apple

The illusion of lifes finale,

Ringing dry the drops of time.

A girl stood watching

Eager eyes telling this story,

An empty wind paints a landscape

Gentle brush strokes creating illusion

Life wandering like ticking clocks.

Her hands were clasped together,

She appeared to be real,

An embroidered seal on her chest,

A broken branch dancing

Orchestral nature through whistling woods.

Watching in wonder,

The girl moved with angelic guidance

Her words as soft as wind's lapping

Elegant lady-like hands pull me down

The grass watch, whispering to one another.

As each broken branch falls,

We await our lady

Vicariously watching for our time spent.

She sings through our harden shells,

Dreaming of shores below a cliff.

The sky above began to swirl and dance,

As clouds began to form and collapse

It went dark and for a moment

I witnessed our lady crying

As her tear drop hit, she was gone.

"Life is an illusion in which we wander endless. Life is an illusion in which we can not walk out of" - Authors note 101

Illiteracy...

Working in the public sector, as I'm sure most if not all of you know, see a wide variety of people. I work for "Service Canada", trying to sell the idea that we are a 'one-stop shop' for all things the Government of Canada offers. We see a wide variety of people with unique circumstances coming into our office.

Today, an elderly man came in holding a letter in his hand. He told me he was illiterate and couldn't read what it said. I felt bad. He showed me the letter and asked if was in the right spot as he had gone to the wrong spot before. This time he was. I put him in to see one of our Citizen Service Officers once they weren't busy. As per all things government, a wait did ensues.

I, being a wanna-be writer, am a people watcher by nature. I saw him pick up a paper and stare at it. My heart sank. Words are my life, I do not know what I would do without them. I wish there was more that I could have done for him.

It got me to thinking about what it would be like, starign a words and only seeing jibberish. Meaningleses scribbles on peices of paper, ink, and web-pages. None of us (bloggers) would be able to write out our thoughts, ideologies, poetry, prose...anything. Scary place, that world is. Are you able to imagine a world without writing, reading or words?

A world where signs, symbols mean nothing. I felt horrible. It made me realize how lucky I was to be literate. It was an enlightening experience for me...thought I would share with you all.

Six days and counting...

A little bit of a back story is needed. My life has always been on Vancouver Island, I was born here, raised here, graduated here, and WAS going to post-secondary here. That changed. Now do not get my wrong, I love this floating rock in the middle of the pacific ocean, but I need some new, something exciting to help my mind regain its mental fortitude, rather than gaining alcoholic fortitude.

At the beginning of this summer a friend of mine approached me with such an opportunity. He needed a roommate. Perfect, right? Well, appearently its a lot harder than anyone expected to transfer schools. Or at least, I figured it would just be a quick clicks and bam, new school, new town, new overall. No. It took a lot longer and me finding out that my, personal, GPA is lower than I ever expect. They still took me, after some begging and pleding (I hate doing that).

After the schooling was settled it was time to find a place to live. Appearently my friend wanted a roommate with no house? Yay. It worked out for the most part. We were promised a place, but that did not work out. Two universtiy-level males, nobody likes us. We did manage to find a place, thanks my friends parents. Nice setup, hardwood floors, first floor. No stuff. The next hurdle.

Last week, I packed up my entire life. Five boxes, one rubbermaid tote(?), a coffee table, dresser, a bed and two couches (yes, I had the joy of supplying our house with stuff). The list above donated my My Mother, Inc. Depressing though, my life is the equivalent to a tiny corner of a garage. Well, first off we thought it would be a good idea to just rent a truck and drive the 12hour drive up north. Wrong. As I stated above, no one likes 20something year old university males. Plus it would have been $1500 to rent a truck, plus ferry fees (I live on an island, remember?) and gas.

Luckily, my mom is a genious and called a moving company and they are moving my stuff up there for cheap(er). That was done Saturday. I've been living out of a suitcase, sleeping on an air mattress and realizing my life is changing. Six days and counting. New school, new town, new people, new places. Needless to say, nervousness is nawing at my stomach and fear is toying with my head. New still sounds good.

[Sorry, its been awhile I have posted anything due to what is said above]

The Looking Glass

Its the realization that comes
When the reflections holds no meaning
The image, turns it back and walks away.

The ripples of water push life in all directions
Forced by a rainfall of stone and timber
That face which was and is no more.

Like a child with a stick,
Attempting to draw a boat in the wave.
I reach out and only plunge deeper.

Cognition like a canablistic maze
Igniting like flame to a fistful of gasoline,
Immersed in the liquid

Eyes staring upward,
Like a saint towards the heavens,
Staring back at my reflection in the waters.
----
A hand, like a petal floating upon the sea,
Touched my neck with a fragile floral fingers
With the gentle touch and startle, there was silence.

A relaxation, calming, liquid emptiness.
Conversational opening like music in the water
Calling to the stones and song;

Braking the mystique between colours.
A loving gaze like that of a hypnotists pendulum,
The warming reflection of liquid over head.

Cavernous doorways exit the mind
Swallowing glass, winged seraph burning angel.
Nine clouds hidding among the oak.
----
Behind us lies a burning gate,
Opened like love to envy,
Ashes to embers, dust to stone.

A record player spinning without a pin
Chess pieces move themselves, in endless stalemate.
Reflections in a mirror of time's passing.

The looking glass, like a soul stands between,
Two burning chariots, like titans clashing.
Washed sand against the diamond shores;

Shimmers of abstract landscapes
Reflection but exist within each grain of dust
Like airy existance shattered by dreams.
----
It was the realization that exists
Within the reflections that holds the desires.
Her eyes pulling me towards

Like a hand on your back,
Pushing towards the ripples in my head.
An opening in the canablistic maze,

Her arms and mine
In a dreamscape,
born entirely of mind and soul.

Her touch like petals
Floating above the water,
Her lips as cool as liquid.

Tears like teases,
An ending in eternity
Like a saint staring at the heavens.

Forgotten Place pt1

His folded in front of him like a shield made of bone. His eyes gleamed in the dark, his smile shone like the cat. He stood in the shadows like a predator watching his prey. His hair was the colour of a blasphemer, or so they say. Smoke was blown back into his nose, the scent of death breathed in and through his lungs. His young face, was only visable by each inhale of ash from the cigarette.

He stood at the edge of the apartments roof, his jacket was blowing in the wind. His gleaming eyes stared out over the city and imagined falling down. He inhaled. Mind racing like a clock being wound backwards. His eyes scanned the streets below, headlights and tire squeals echoed inside his ears. He could feel the slightly polluted air brush against his face as he pulled the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled.

The exhaled smoke clouded his young face. A soft, femine hand ran up his backand under his hood. The hand stopped and rested on his shoulder blade, sending a noticable shiver down his spine. The sound of heels echoed and stopped next to him. With glazed eyes he turned his head and eyed her up a girl next to him, bottom to top. Her heels lifted her small body 2 inches off the ground, allowing her to stand eye-level to him. Her heels extended her soft, smoothly glistening legs into a short, crimson cocktail dress.

Her hand stayed resting on his back. Long dark hair covered her face from veiw. Moving her hand down his right arm to his hand she took the cigarette with no resistance. Lifting it to her lips, unvieling a perfectly symetrical face, her lips were accented by dark red lip stick and her eyes, although closed were naturally accented and beautiful.

Dark skies void of stars created a back drop for her exhaled smoke. She smiled and placed the cigarette back in between his fingers. Placing a hand on his shoulder she kissed his cheek. The sound of her black heels moving behind him, as she moved sides. Her voice was pitched as an angel singing hymms to the gods. He turned to face her as she began to stare at the world below that so facinated him. She was smiling at him, as he looked at her.

"Psyche, don't bother." he said quickly cutting her off. "Your words wil not convince me to return."

Her smile faded, as she walked behind him back to his other side. Her hand brushing against him, her hair blowing in the wind. She took his hand in hers and looked into his eyes. Moving her body closer to his, she placed his arm around her neck and pressed against him. Running her hand against his stomach like a seducer in a bar.

"Darling, you know there isn't anything we can do. They've forgotten us." She looked below with disgust.

The sound of a pigeon jumping down off of a fence rang in the air behind them. He took another drag on his cigarette, exhaling to the side. He looked at her, emotionless. Her eyes were like liquid as his were empty, a wasteland that had given up hope, content to stay empty like a veteran returning from his last tour. He knew she spoke the truth despite the aching in his chest. She tried to stare at him lovingly despite his emptiness.

With anger she pushed off of him, the sound of leather filled the silence on the roof, as she sighed "Babe, you can't just stand up here and watch them like a hawk waiting for its prey..."

Taking another drag on his smoke, he breathed out "And why not Psyche? Why not? They used to look to us, use to understand and know that we are here. How could they just forget us like this?" the smoke clouded around his eyes. "Do they not fear us anymore?"

She looked down at them. A car's break lights lit up as it stopped for the stop light. She watched as a young lady walking by herself got her purse stolen, and the man running down the streets vanishing from sight down a dark alleyway. She scuffed at the material obsessions, she coughed. That air tasted stale, "Why should they fear us, Cupid? They have each other to be fearful of."

He took another drag, ignoring her. He kicked some dirt around on the roof, with black leather boots. He tossed his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out. Behind them a rusted metal fence stood, blocking an electrical box and stopping anyone from saving the man on the sticker from a lightning bolt. The roof was covered in sand and gravel, there were fans running and some large pipes for air ventilation for the apartments below them.

In shadows of the perimeter, lay a two black masses, one slightly smaller than the other. Her heels clicked as she moved nearer to him. She was furious with his stubbornness. She grab his hand and reached in to the pocket of his jacket. Pulling out the pack of Cigarette's, the box had a blue strip along the top holding the name written in white. Emerging from his pocket as well, locked between her fingers, was his lighter, bright orange like the sun.

Leaning to him again "I know you know there isn't any place like home...." She kissed is cheek, her attempt at coersion.

"This is my home now. It is the only place that makes sense anymore." he looked in her hands.

"This? This glorified abstraction of a place?" She spat, like a baseball player chewing tabaco.

He steped away. Turning to find the moon in the sky that night. Her sigh echoed amongst the metal pipes. He ignored her yet again. He pointed to the moon, shinning silvery grey beams of light down on the city muffled by streetlamps and headlights. The sleeve of his dark leather jacket pulled up as he raised his arm, revealing a tatoo of angel wings on the top of his wrist.

"Look at that Psyche. You do not get that view from home." he admired it not lowering his pointing finger.

"Thats because that might as well be home." She looked up at, clearly unimpressed.

She attempted to walk away, heading towards the doorway which leads down the stairwell into the apartment building. He quickly grabbed her, sliding his left arm around her waist and pulled her back into him. Wrapping his other arm around her, he faced them towards the moon. Gorgeous. Standing behind her, he held her tightly. "Look at it, its beautiful." He whispered to her, before kissing her.

Her eyes looked at it, and shook her head. Nothing. He's lost it. She thought to herself, lighting herself a cigarette. Exhaling the smoke up into his face, she maneuvered out of his arms and faced him. "There's nothing here for me anymore Cupid. This pointless." She tossed the cigarette down to the ground stepping on it as she bolted towards the door.

Still mesmerized by the moon, he caught her leaving out of the peripherals. "Sweetheart, wait up!" He called to her, following her slowly.

"These mortal bodies are fragile, where's the keys to your place?" She called back, not turning to face him.

The light of the stairwell, saw nothing but two shillohette's gliding down the stairs to the 2nd floor. Otherwise empty and silent, the hospital white walls yawned with the buzzing of luminecent lights. The shadows at the edge of the perimeter of the roof began to fade with each step they made towards the bottom. Each foot step echoed with the light click of heels and the booming of leather boots on concrete. The endagering echo of a metal door slamming was the last that was heard before the stairwell emptied and the walls fell back into slumber.

...

"There is nothing colder than a love lost. Not the icy winds of the north, nor the million year old ice of the south. Life lasts because love exists, even if we can't find it. Once we swallow our shallow ends does love begin to flow, like a dam's door being opened to find a lake staring at it." - Authors Note 33

Here

On an empty sheet
We spill our thoughts
From an empty glass
We attempt the Tale
With empty words
We whisper to our kin
These empty promises
Leave us feeling full.

"We all have the compacity to lie, to do ill, to bring down another, it is the people that do that show us what would happen if that capacity was acted upon." - Authors Note 61

At the Edge of the World...

I sat alone watching the world turn,
The sun shone onto the rocks below,
Reflecting like a child with a mirror.

Roses leaned in as if to pray,
Gods of ever witness to their plea,
Swollen petals fell, wilted.

A pond as clear as glass,
Held its ground to the wind
Filled like an empty tea-cup.

The sands of time strain its tears,
As we chase tomorrow,
Like a lover lost to yesterday.

"Have you ever seen a broken heart beat?
It will beat until all the cracks are gone;
Like a blacksmith above a forge."

A voice in the Dark,
The shadows before me,
Female, soft, smooth and eloquent.

From the darkness below,
Shimmering whispers echo
Like a robin perched at morning.

The walls began to erode,
Falling away under myself,
Her cooling embrace swelled around.

Her voice: a calling in song,
Empty as a smile from a Stranger.
Her hand upon my shoulder;

She whispered as a serpent to its prey,
“I love you, everything will be okay”
Caught in the shadow of her tongue.

A forgotten soul
Trapped in the darkness
Her aching breath freezes the beating heart.

I sat alone as the world turned,
Watched as the sun fell below
And all elegance fell away.

"It is not until the world ends will we see the mistakes we've made." - Authors note 43

When the blood boils...

The broken and the restless thats what they called us. Lost souls, forgotten long ago. Left to rot in our own mental cages. Dark shadows bend over like trees dancing in the wind. We sit in the shadows watching the world turn around us, envious like the angels fallen from the heavens. Our blood would begin to boil, burn and urge us forward like a leesh and collar. The drumming of my heartbeat pounds in the back of my head.

Empty vessels filled solely by the strings attached to our limbs. Like marianettes, pulled by our own dismay. It is not until the puppet strings snap are our souls release, destroyed. The beating of the heart never stops, pulsating like the neon sign of the motel where I sleep. Concrete alley ways attached to broken bridges and fallen forests. The trees above held people on their branches, hung upside down like caddle awaiting slaughter.

It is with skilled and silent desolation we strike from the shadows like a serpant uncoiled. Screams as slient as the shadows we came from. Born of blackened brimestone and soil, our lives sucked drive from one another. Each before us like an Anarchist heirarchy. Sworn in like an oath at court, swearing the most truthful lie you can conjure. The voices whisper of soldiers of light. Dusk and dawn rise and fall like incense in a room full of steam.

They call us the broken and the restless. Spirits damned to wander the shadows. Sparks amongst ourselves ignite the shadows void of passion. We walk in the daylight, along side you. We are your friends, we know you and you know us. You even see the shadows, but ignore it in a blissful guile. Eyes clouding over, the beating stops. A silent cry. A warmth washes over us like an ocean's wave. The final calming.

Mourning Rise

Alone he sat in wonder
What the world would be a plnder.

He sat and watched the people below
Like the sun it rrises and sets swaring to and frow.

The Floral decore offset the not yet yellow wall,
Broken and torn our fellow man, an empty hall.

Thoughts of Love and passion filled his head
Past, present and future danced as he sat upon that bed.

A smile, a tear and a fist of this lover swoon,
As he now wanders the darkside of this concrete moon

I now understand why the Holy Grail was never found...

I have been working on this since friday, well that is a lie. I spent the weekend with friends rather, uh, intoxicated. So well enjoy: :)

As some of you may know, or may not. My Cousin, Collin Fraser, played on the 2010 Chicago Blackhawks and won the Stanley Cup. For all you non-hockey fans or perhaps you just live under a rock, the Stanley Cup is like the holy grail of hockey (not really but you know), its the trophy for being the best team in the league. When a team does win the Stanley Cup each player gets a chance to bring the cup home, and appearently host a private party with friends and family on the NHL.

Two days ago, Wendsday July 15th, this glorgeous silver cup came to Surry, BC (near Vancouver) and home town to my Cousin Collin. The cup was on display at the Surrey Recreation Centre and then brought to a private room in Moxies. This is where I first beheld the simmer wonder that is Sir Stanley Cup. I've never seen it before (aside from Television) and I've never been a huge hockey fan much to the attempts of my family and friends, but being that close to what might as well be a national monument was breathtaking. On top of that I got to do a shot with a modern day titan, Canadian Hockey Players (=P).


I have a few pictures of it, of me with it and me, how do I put this...kissing it. So once I figure out how to post those I will post them up here. I had to leave early that night to get to work the next morning, but I got a text my dad and brother who got to drink beer out of the top of the Stanley Cup, bastards (excuse my language). I think it is safe to say I may start watching hockey again.


The story does not stop there though. After an 81 dollar, particially intoxicated ride in a taxi, make the last ferry to Vancouver Island and stumbling onto the ferry I realized I left the keys to the car I was driving back at my Dad's place in Victoria. This may not have been a huge issue, if my dad did not live a 2hour drive away from the Duke Point terminal in Nanaimo. Now the fun begins.


At mid-night when the sobering effects of fear and realization of stupidity, I called my mom who lives two hours in the opposite direction of my dad to drive down my brother's car's spare key. Needless to say, she was unimpressed and tired. You know when you walk by people who are fighting you always take a little peak and chuckle to yourself. Well when some one is yelling into a phone you can hardly see you just assume their crazy or hearing voices. Yeah, those were the looks I was getting as my mom and and I exchanged 'pleasantries'.


Finally we came conclusion and she was going to drive them down in the morning (before we both had to work). I love my Mom, I knew she loved me too, but she definitely did not like me at this point. I hailed a cab that was waiting out front of the Ferry arrival and told him to take me to the nearest 'reasonably' priced hotel/motel. Never again. The cabbie was nice, I explained to him my delema and my story and he stopped the ticker at $20 from what would have been a $40 cab ride. He also snagged me a taxi discount or something like that.


It was 1:30am and I knew I had to be up and ready to go by 5:00am. By this point I was so tired just of thinking of the exhaustion tomorrow. He drove me to a hotel he didn't think lots of cops and drugs were at, there weren't any but could have fooled me. He snagged me a cabbie discount or something...I didn't know they existed but I was too tired and probably still a little intoxicated to care.


The night person who even looked sketchy, like one of those hotel owners from a horror movie handed me my key Room 212, had me pay and told me my room is third door on the down. I'm going to take a moment to describe this Motel to you. It is one of those one which you walk by and shake your head at knowing (rather assuming) that it 'rents by the hour' so to speak. It was coloured blue and white, at least I think it was white at one point, it was more of a grey-ish. The sign out front was Neon blue, and read "Royal Motel" and had a poorly drawn crown as its symbol. there were weeds and weird plant life growing the cement in front of it and the 'parking lot' held about four cars.


There was a wooden 'staircase' leading up to the second (top) level, I took a step and it squeaked a little, then another and another, then the wood sank a bit and I hear snapping. Great. So I did what any 'great adventurer' would do, move the next stair and finally the top. I stuck the key(They used real keys, not the electric manget strip one probably should have been my first sign) they gave me into the locking hole and turned it as it to unlock. No luck. So I try again thinking it could be backwards. No good. So I step back and look at the door, setting down my suitcase.I notice the door handle also has a lock on it. Two locks, second sign. so I put it in there and Voila the door opens.


A blast of heat hits me, the room is hotter than hell, about 10-15 degrees hotter than it is outside. The room, again, looks like something straight out of a horror movie. The desk is one of those fake made to look like antique wood which matches te ugly chair, which I set my jacket down on, and the fridge. I know that sounds weird that the wood matches the fridge but the door of the fridge was that fake plastic made to look like wood stuff. The bathroom and the toliet seat had, how do I put this, weird markings on it (IE. Stains) the rest was fine...for the most part, the weird markings were present on the shower curtain as well. The phone, was one of those old school skinny phones, not your average hotel phone. It was like walking into a whole 'nother world.


Being as tired as I was just changed into my 'sleep pants' and stripped my shirt off. It being 35 degrees celcius and slightly afraid of what might be lying underneath hte sheets I just slept on top of them. Needless to say, I saw the sunrise for the first time since my hockey days, with 2hours of sleep, I managed to make myself a pot of coffee, shower and sit on the edge of my bed. It was epic.

I can now fully appreciate each quest for that elusive holy grail. It's not that it was ever found or touched, its just that everyone was to afraid of the trek back they just gave up once they found it. Still, being in the presence of the cup, kissing it (its a really good kisser btw) and hugging the Stanley is a once in a life time opportunity, it was awesome.

Angel in the Grass

"The swelling of a broken heart lies not within the heart itself but with the memories of what the heart use to be." - Authors note 20


There under the light of day, Lies an angel in the grass
Wings folded in front
Glistening under the ultra violet,
Like a mirrored reflection.


A breeze brushes the grass
Caressing, touching the skin
Shiver.
Ghostly fingers silhouette perfection
Like a living lover eyes stare upwards.


"From heaven's hand you have fallen,
And in my arms you lie."

Transparent

The nightingale sings softly

As the sun rises beyond

Hallowed lovers shimmer

Transparent.

The constant roar of canons

As the kingdom falls on a knee

Below fallacy of a smiles

Transparent.

The language of divinity Spoken

As the sun sets on a bowing world

Below man, baptized in the fires of sin,

Transparent.

An elegant kiss

While wicker forms form

Below the belt,

Oblivious.

Envious and Devious

In the Whirlwind of time

these flames of life flicker

Ignite sparks of lovers' past

Like a forest fire in July

The broken crash down

When no one is to see or hear

Mountains shift and cities fall

Like an emperor on his thrown

Social suicide a political demise

Independence stifled by conformity

The service for the Masses

...at least so we are told.

"Conformity is the root of are societies demise. If we viewed everyone by their own standards and not our own, did not force our own dreams, goals and values upon others and lived our lives like the independents we are, peace could be achieved..." - Authors note 67

Ignorance is Bliss

I ended up taking a little trip down island this weekend. Gorgeous days, sunshine, warmth and friends what more could some one ask for? Well perhaps the drivers of the roads to be a bit more 'aware', concientious and to add a dash of selfless-ness to their ignorance.

My weekend of amazing drivers started with a van attempting to pass me in a non-passing section of one our more dangerous highways. This would have been fine if he had not been behind me when the passing lane that merged into a single. Once he saw that, he gunned it and passed me, just before it was too narrow to do. Well, again, it wouldn't have bothered me much if this person would have driven the speed limit after he so forcefully passed me just moments before. He attempted the same to a truck who had just witnessed his actions to me, but the truck wouldn't let me do it. Later, passing this #$%hole I found out his van is part of ICBC (our isurance company in British Columbia), and part of the collision experts of it. Irony...



There were other within the city limits. Too many to list.



The drive back was not to, too bad. Except for the small part that an ambulance was attempting to get through on the highway (sirens on everything). I got flipped off for attempting to move over, and honked at. Watching the ambulance attempting to weave the traffic I couldn't help but to think what would happen if I was who ever this ambulance was attempting to get to. I watched as cars refused to pull over, tailgated, honked, cursed and so on.

I found out this weekend, I have road rage. I know this is the second post in a row about cars.


"Those who are free of resentful thoughts surely find peace." - Buddha

The Car Crash

Life is such a precious and fragile thing. It's a like a rough gemstone being shined and buffed into a beautiful shinning stone. Each year is the gemstone's beauty being shinning and shimmer. As fragile as it is, once it slips out of our finger tips it wil shatter upon impact. Life is such a fragile and beautiful thing, such a precious thing.



Today I had my life flash before my eyes. I am only 20 years old and I witnessed all the things that I haven't and have done fly by me. Today, while driving to an 'outreach event' at a local High School, my coworker was hit by a car in the centre of an intersection by a car running a rubyred light. I was in the car behind her.



This morning went excellent, we had four/five new job postings with out online job bank and I had a radio interview with the local station here (The River). It was a beautiful sunny day, got too work on time, good cup of coffee, everything seemed to be doing well today. Yet, as the universe has shown me on timeless occasions that it needs balance, nothing can be too good without something devastating will happen to even the scales.


We decided to take separate cars and just rock paper scissors to see who was to go on their lunch first and since we'd be half to either of our houses. I pulled up behind her at a red light, and lent down to turn on the Air Conditioning (first day of beautiful sunshine and it was warm) and turned up the volume on the radio.


Out of the corner of my eye I saw the bright red brake lights turn off and sat back up, to get ready to pull through the intersection. I took my foot off of the Government Car's brake pedal and began to pull forward slightly. My peripherals caught a quick glimpse of a sharp blue flat and quickly slammed back on the break pedal. I watched as in slow motion this blue Pontiac Sunfire impacted with my coworkers car. Time slowed down so I could witness every small detail of his front end being crushed into itself and her silver Mazda's passenger side door being pushed inwards.


Shaking I put my car in park and turned the engine off. Staring blankly at the scene, my coworkers car pulled forward out of the intersection and parked just off on the continuation of the road. my hand began to shake as I shook off the shock and dialed those fearsome number 9-1-1. I described the accident to the operator on the other end. The car began to heat up sitting in the sun. Once snapped back to reality I realized I needed to get the car off the road, I backed up and off and quickly ran to my coworkers vehicle.


Her eyes were red from tears and she was shaking. There are a couple other people checking on her. She had said her arm and her back was sore. Fumbling with the phone, the police officers on site ushered us off to the side so the Paramedics could take a look at her. When all was said and done, the guy who ran the red light was taken on a stretcher into and ambulance. She was looked at and released to go to the hospital and get looked at.


We all see car crashes and accidents on TV and in the movies, but I will not lie, it is one of the scariest things to witness in real life. To all those who have not witnessed and accident I hope you never do, and never see some one you know get in one if you do.

The Hermit and His Castle

There was once a man, who isloated himself onto an island called Hornby. In his youth, he had worked as a Park Ranger for the forestry. As he aged his mind deteriorated, manifesting itself as a mental illness recognized as OCD(Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder) more specifically Hoarding.

His Kingdom, similar yet much broader and wider than those presented to us on that TLC show "Hoaders", was vast, thriving and lushuous. Like any good king he sat in on his throne, a lawn chair setup in the centre of his collection of memories, and watched over his 'subjects' (objects). A minstril in the shape of an old, wooden radio sits next to their king for entertainment.

As he regards his subjects with eager eyes, memories flood through every pipe of the brain, like a newly 'pumped' bath. He sits in the centre, watching each of the carefully carved trails through his memorial kingdom. The saying "One man's trash is another man's treasure" is not lost on him at all. Each piece of his so called 'junk' held a specific and special memory which kept this lonely king's soul alive.

His collection, his material memoire, cost him his princess and his queen. The life of a king amongst inanimate subjects took a toll on the royal family of his Island Kingdom. His method of coping was to keep more, and more, and more. His kingdom expanded and grew, like a roman general commanding a legion of men across Europe. He placed each object, each subject into its respected place. Old baby carriages with old baby carriages, tires there, coat hangers here...oh and over there an elephant lamp fraternizing with the lawn gnomes.

A soul tortured by his illness. He covered his house with his physical epic. He discovered upon the water front a place where he could bath, the rocks held the heat of the sun which warmed the salt water. His life held meaning within his objects, his objects showed him his worth. A king looks down at his subjects and the subjects kneel before their king.

Life continued on as normal, bathing in the ocean, resting upon his throne with his radio minstral playing. He looked out upon his empire, with a reminiscent gaze. Adoring, memorizing, organizing.

As history has shown every man, great or small, every glorified empire must tumble into rubble. Even those created out of the rubble of exiled objects. The sound of backhoes, bulldozers and excavators unvieled themselves at his door step. They began excavating his collection, burning his memoire, erasing the memories he held.

A warrent had been issued by the Island Counsil to clean up his property. Our king was arrested for attempting to stop the crew. He was held, and made to watch his world be crushed around him. His kingdom burned to the ground, and with it all everything he held dear, everything that was special (which was everything mind you) was tossed into the flames.

A man who was made to watch everything he owned being taken from him, having to watch his own world being destroyed before his eyes. A true story which happened to a man on Hornby Island, near my home town. He was an old fellow who was a legitimate 'hoader', his illness progressed over time and had caused his wife and daughter to leave him. He was a park ranger before retirement, smart and articulate. A lonely soul, who was not offered much compensation for this, except access and information on mental health services he can contact.

I thought I would share a rather breif story about this man. As when I had heard about this story from the police officer that had to arrest this poor man for interferance, I was taken back, a bit hurt and got rather worked up over the injustice of it. The officer, my mom's boyfriend, had a good and working relationship with the man and liked him very much, as he caused no trouble to no one. His only flaw was that he collected, sorted and hoarded objects of 'meaning' to him. There were some health issues with the property, so for that I can understand, yet I still can not help to feel terrible that my province, and that this has happened so close to my home.

This was the only thing that I could think of to do for him, was to share the story with those of you who do read my blog. I feel bad for the man and I could not imagine having to watch my world fall around me. Having my property invaded by judging others who hold their wealth and power over the heads of others.

Thank you for reading this, as it is stories like these that have influenced my studies in Psychology and my possible persuit into Law.

New Job

Okay, although I don't normally write blogs about my day but I want to try something new. I recently start a new job as a 'Youth Service Officer', working for Service Canada. I, essentially, just deal with youth/students (university included) and help them find work in my tiny town. At least that is the official job description.


Well to start some background, I use to work for Starbucks for about 2years, I am rounding up of course. Being a lowly 'barista' and constantly working with the public, as (I am sure) many of you know is an experience like none other. People are interesting creatures.


Now working for Starbucks, I saw my fair share of these interesting people and often wondered where they all came from. People pissed off about their day, people who had no clue what or where they were, people who just plain old had no clue, and some people who were just held a grudge with me because I said "Hi, how are you doing today?"


Now, I don't know about you all and where you are from but my home town of Campbell River houses some of the oddest and most 'interesting' people I have ever seen. Now, Campbell River (CR) is a small town that barely made it to call itself a city. It could be all small towns/cities, but I know for sure CR houses the most facinatingly interesting people.


As I stated above, I use to wonder where all these people had come from when they came to Starbucks. Now working in the public service, I wonder it even more. Our office opens up at 8:30 in the morning (as per most goverment workplaces, I think?).


Well, to start off this morning an astranged hippy walks in carrying nothing but a white slip of paper. Now I solely work with Youth, sadly have limited knowledge on our other services. Still this hippy appeared to be in a rush, as he dropped the paper on my table like desk. Before the paper even hit the desk he was moving out the door, yelling as he did "This is for (Hippy2)".


Needless to say, I had no idea what to do with this appearent white piece of paper. Turns out it was a doctors note. When the receptionist saw this, and/or heard this, she quickly picked up the piece of paper from my desk. Nearly spilling my coffee, with ninja like speed, my 60 something year old receptionist grab the guys shoulder and command he wait a second.


At the time, I was much too in shock to hold back a laugh much less brace myself for the quickness of the my near retired receptionist. I caught the cup coffee in time to hear Hippy Squared from her car (which had been running the entire time, as if she was the get away car during a Bank Robbery) yelling her Social Insurance Number out to her boyfriend (Hippy1) who was repeating it at an equal volume in the doorway.


Already by 9:30am, I was scared, confused, amazed, flustered, histerical, and nearly burned. This day continued on much the same way. The day continued to rise and fall with each client, much like a heart beat monitor. Bleep, Bleep. All that could good through my head "first week down, 3 more months to go."




"The truth about people lies not in the way they present themselves to you, but in the way they don't." - Authors Note 04

The Cherub and The Sinner

There is a room,

Locked behind a wooden door,

That lies long forgotten.

A nursery and a tomb

Silhouetted by shelves

A child and a skull sit opposite.

The child, born of innocence,

Thousand years of tolerance

Sat upon the dusty shelf.

A single star,

Silently swinging sorrow,

Like a spot light upon a stage.

The skull sits in silence,

Locked eternally with a smirk

The sin of eternity.

In the center,

A world spins like a top,

About to topple over.

The Cherub and the Sinner,

Place bets on the spilling souls,

Like sailors lost at sea.

There exists a single room,

Locked behind a forgotten door,

Where time places no tole

On the wicked

Nor upon the innocence,

She merely watches from above

Like a star singing sorrow.

"In each and every soul which wonders are fair earth there exists a soul of equal eloquence to them self. The issue lies not with their existence but with there location in relation to each other. It is our job not only acknowledge their existence but to find them and prove to ourself and them that they are that destiny." - Authors Note 55

Writersblock

Lately, being the past 2 months, my writing has been suffering from lack of inspiration and anything nothing to write about. Life still ticks away as if I were still able to write. It's a writersblock which masons stop and marvell at. It is like an ailment or illness which shows no sign of slowing down or curing itself anytime soon.

There is a black leather notebook which rests on my bed and torments the mind of a young writer. Every once and a while the pen and I resolve the differences between us and scribble some words in it. I start to wonder if inspiration is like the flame of a candle flickering, but once it has devoured the wick, the flame is no more. It seems to me that the tiny voice of the internal critic finds twice as many faults as their are words.

It is a sad story when a writer loses the elegant music of the squabbling of pen on paper. When the writer realizes the words he chooses are the same as the ones before, and before that. The meanings, the ideology, the criticism he offers to himself mean nothing more to the soul as the gray sky does to the earth below.

I began to wonder if there may exist a cure for this type of writersblock or if it is the punishment for an unconscious crime. It is hard to target the small clog in the clog in the circuts of the brain. Perhaps the coffee I drink every day has finally stopped the part of the brain that ignites when one gathers inspiration.

"Disillusion is a natural stage that follows the holding of an illusion."
- Susan Shaughnessy

I know I have neglected my blog, and I apologize to you few followers. I could give the excuses such as: I had exams and I was moving back home but no one likes excuses. So to hopefully make up for the sin of neglecting ones blog, so here are a few poems which I have wrote recently. Thank you.

Sounds of Life

The sounds of strings fill the silence

A being asleep within the emptiness

Swollen cavern, hollow emotions

Personal warfare, Breaking nature.

Violins playing the chorus of life

Guitars strumming the sorrow of death

Chelos echoing the truths of love

The beginning of the awakening.

Transformation of angst to anxiety

reason watching over impulse

Like parental intuition,

When the stones settle at the bottom

Our lives shift the tides of times

Melting the cubes of ice

As they wait for our lives to flow.

Heaven's Hell

There exists a small world

Twisted and torn

Like a child's toy

Kept from destruction

Under watchful eyes.

A world born without thought

Without rhyme or reason

Irrational impulses

As the blooming of blossoms

And the spinning of silken webs.

Walking the endless hallways

The maze of instinct

Encircling environment

The planetary hell

Sanctuary to abomination.

Words of wonder

Palace for forgotten entities

Creatures and deities

Life without hierarchy

All forgot, all for naught

There exists a small world

Twisted and torn

A where life thrives

A perfect imperfection

Welcome to heaven's hell.

Leather-Bound

Spin and Leather-bound

The minds of men

A collective consciousness

The awakening of the Celestine

Raining fire and brimstone

Words, phrases, strengthened manipulation

The sicken wisdom of manner

Dying like a polluted tree

Open the eyes of man

The islands which we live

Breathing the breath of man

Adopt adaptation

Wither the withering height

Embrace eternity

Walk face first into the light

Darkness blooms like leaves

Swallow the pride

Lay down, roll over, beg

It is a dogs life after all.

Loneliness of a Blooming Flower

"It is from the dark, the empty, that we must reach out to ensure we grab a hold of something. Id we never reach out then there is no hope of catching something and the empty darkness will rest like a crown on top of a king." - Authors Note 54


Somewhere under this veil, Hidden in a void
There is a flower
Above the sky is cold
Here, never witnessed, never tainted
Pure to her roots
It blooms in this Sanctuary.


Avoiding the empty world
Avoiding lovers warmth
Avoiding the torments;
Still as stone.


She sits alone
In slumber before bloom
Watches the word spin,
Spin eternal as a top;
Like a sword in a stone
She rest atop her blooming throne
Imaginary kingdom of Strange.


It is from her void
Avoidance of thoughtful passion,
Empty as a glass awaiting filling
That this veil of stolen elegance
The aegis like parental guidance.

The Wonders of Loving a Shipwrecked Siren

"In the beginning life is a treasure chest of wonders, beauties and adventures...where is the turning point from this to cynicism?" - Authors note 67

The Wonders of Loving a Shipwrecked Siren

Passionate flower,

Violent moon,

Blooming blossoms,

Childish wonder,

Seabound solider.

Sky ablaze,

Timeless March,

Nameless drummer,

Unforeseen speech,

False grace.

Coldest love,

Wandering vessel,

Artistic intervention,

Musing inspiration,

Condemning constellation.

Undead poet,

Philosophical embrace,

Broken psyche,

First finale,

Shattering tears.

Lively strain,

Tasteful serenade,

The misconception,

False serenity,

Broken soul.

"One faier than my love? The all-seeing sun

Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun."

Stream of Consciousness

There amongst the opened doors stood a shadow unlike any other, darkness eludes it, light fears it, yet it stood completely in sight opened mouthed, arms out-stretched ready for a comforting embrace. Human concept is broken, a creation of our own consciousness, born of elegance, tossed into ugliness. Harbinger of sorrows, desires, hands smooth as lovers, smooth of her framings, alone watching with patience of a predator's pounce the sole truth brought down by the wrath of domestic pain. Consciousness eluding our minds. We stare into him like an anomaly of mental constructs. It's eyes, cold, ice cold; her endlessness, her eternity, broken soul. In those open doorways it standing between dark and light, feared and forgotten; neither taken, neither needed, nor wanted.

"..." - Authors Note 22

"Sometimes we just need to hope that the flickering lamp doesn't burn out, lost and alone in the dark" - Authors note 13

Love

Vigorous fury, the Clouds

Converge above,

Singing songs silently;

Laughing at the creatures

Consumed by unjustifiable lust;

Eager destruction of self.

Romantic fallacy,

Her voice unique

Her stature;

His eyes liquid

His hands shiver.

Fear, control, worry

An endless cycle of usage

Mindless, selfless

Lost amongst wills

And wonts, conceptual failures,

Waves or replication

Drifting away along eternity,

Her grip loosens

His memory paranoid.

Only willing once,

Single desire,

Questioning.

Forget.

Above,

Scattered end,

Truthful theatrical finale;

Desirable yet unachievable

Constituted by their amour;

Dispersed illumination, glistening.

Whispers

"Be weary, tread carefully for once you have seen the darkness, there is no turning back, no looking away. IF you wish to keep reading out of general intrigue, I will welcome your presence with an advancing embrace; for this is the only warning. Once the foot is in the door, the door will disappear. Here, is full of empty hallways, dead ends, milted was and corridors of broken chairs, a visibility of absolute minimum and brought forth to rest solely in this labyrinth of thought. Electro pulses and shocking visual paintings of nothingness, opening our ever eternal lives...So if you continue reading, I welcome you to the reality that is my mind." - Authors Note 01

Prologue

The air was still and cold. Small rodents wrestled with the the entangled branches of low bushes. Plots of lawns and neatly organized and cut grass lined with the low hedges, some well kept others overgrown and forgotten. The stars danced with each other, under the silvery spotlight beams of their mother moon. Whispers, chanting, broke the tranquil night. A shiver passed through the cold air, like a ripple in rock torn water. Their feet shuffled, almost gliding along the pavement. Pure, beautiful blackness covered their feet from view, cut just before the ground. Long, elegant, straight as freshly pulled velvet covered the entirety of their bodies. Shadows void of light. Their hands were clasped like monks, heads hung, faces covered by a veil of ultimate darkness. Staring into them was like looking into the heart of a 'Black Hole', void of light. As they passed the rodents and the branches gave up on their fight, becoming statues.

At the edge of this suburban town, these shadows moved. Silence, tranquility, was only broken by the slight murmur of their chants. Darkness stood at the end of one of the perfectly cut lawns, pure blackness amongst a shaded forest backdrop. Vengeful emptiness gazing, yet not, at the numbers present on the bone white dry wall - 7527.

Whispers

The gray overture of impending night combating artificial light. Swallowed by the emptiness of nights glory, his room shone in the light of this on-suite bathroom. Living in a small basement suite, consisting of a kitchen attached to the small living space, and his bedroom. The sound of a faucet pouring like a waterfall taken from its forest home filled consumed the suite silence. His bedroom was empty aside from a dresser, nightstand, television and his bed. The walls were empty aside from a painting that was hung just above the head of the bed. Pictures standing like guards next to a red glowing digital clock, showed memories of forgotten happiness. The pictures were stood in a frame like a triad, the center picture showed two people, himself and a female, as did the other two, all smiling. Her brown hair was down, eyes like sapphires, a glow that surrounded the both of them, shone off of her like a flashlight in a box.

The painting above his bed was a print of a Michaelangelo painting, his mother had given him. His mother had forgotten the name while it lay catching dust in their old backwater town houses attic. Painting of angels sending warnings. The sound of liquid stopped, a shadow formed in the open doorway, blocking the only source of light to the bedroom, from the bathroom. The clock glowing, like a tiny spark floating through the wilderness, the numbers of 12:04am. The shadow moved into the formation of himself. He stripped himself of the cotton he was wearing, tossing his shirt onto his faux mahogany floor. His torso was white, not quite pale but far from tanned, he was not buff but he was fit. His abs were not complete but he was not fat. There was a tattoo of a Celtic cross on his left bicep, accented in black ink, which disappeared with a click.

The light was gone, disappeared back to the particles of gas, mixing with electricity. Cold sensation shot up from the nerve endings in his feet, sending shivers back down his body as he made his way to the bed. His head laid against the soft, comforting pillows; his eyes scanning over the pictures and memories, like cogs working in a watch, flooded over his mind. Like a hostage in a terrorist negotiation, his mind forced the non-chronological sequence of images, sounds, smells and emotions.

The Dreaming Soul

Rose petals glistened in the silence of sunlight, her eyes were blindfolded, led only by a hand to hand connection. Trees sang softly as a light breeze pushed through their extended branches. Her heel scuffed against a stone and the fragrance of Rose and nature's natural beauty filled the air around them. He was smiling at his accomplishment of surprise, despite the fact he knew she hated them.

"Where the hell are we?" she repeated

"Relax hun, you'll see in a second!" His lips curled back into a smile.

He could feel the black velvet box bouncing against his leg, in the pocket of his jeans. The song of the trees was drowned out by the soft lyrics of their song. They stopped at the top of a small hill, the sunlight was dimming at the sign of dusk. Her hand clutched his tightly as she recognized the song. Pulling off the blindfold she could see what he had setup for her: A small table with two unlit candles, wired chairs, a small Cd player placed on the stump of a fallen tree which was playing their song. He got down on one knee and opened the velvet box, looking up at her as he formed those words. A flash of the camera as she mouthed that one single word of his conscious desire,"yes".
----------
He ran into his mother's arms across the freshly green, cut grass. Bare foot, with some blood trickling down the ankle of his left leg. Embraced in a maternal arms, he attempted to explain with a sorrow-filled, childish mumble. The warm, relaxing rubbing of the back started to dry the tears and hold the murmur at a low moan. He cool feel the still breeze brushing the grass against his heels, the blood had stopped it's running, all sounds had been reduced to a soft whisper.
"Mommy?" his opened, bloodshot and dried by the opened tear ducts.

The silence of movements had distracted the young mind as he fell against the grass. The calm rubbing had stopped, the embrace was gone, and the childish murmurs were nothing more than whispers. His mother's voice could still be heard in the back of his mind, like the conscious voice of culture in society. There were shadows, blacker than black with their heads down in which looked like cloaks, moving away from the house.
--------
Standing in the doorway, consumed by the sunlight only his silhouette was visible. The Hall was lined with pews and at the end of the Hall, stood a casket raised by two chairs cover with a white sheet. Candles were lit and about he only form of light within. This was no Church or funeral home, his sparked unnoticed as tears dripped to the floor. He moved down the center aisle between the pews, to the casket.

Her body was cased among elegant satin cover pillows, her beautiful eyes were shut, closed to the world. Here at the end of the Hall, it was dark, a void of light - A shadow cast over the corpse. He leaned in and kissed her cold dry lips, wiped a tear from his eye and knelt down and held her hand. The people sitting in the pews watching, whispering the the persons next to them, completely empty of all sympathetic thought. He turned to face them, head down walked back into the sunlight, whispering and mumbling how his love had been taken too early from him, how much he had loved her.

As he walked out the door the sunlight consumed him like a door being shut.

Present Day - Whispers

They moved slowly, carefully, methodically up the driveway of 7527. Their chants grew quieter, the world more still, an entire world of statues. They reached out and scratched the wooden door, the barrier keeping them out. They're chanting stopped and all fell quite, no noise, no whispers, no breeze, there was nothing.

The silvery beams of light that the moon shone was muffled by drawn curtains. His bed sat in the middle of the room against the wall, coated in the slight silver light. Around his bed was complete shadow. The door to the bathroom swayed a little, as pitch darkness creped out of the empty room. His head rolled in the pillow, breath heavy, each breath colder than the last. The Darkness moved around his bed as if animated, like a leopard stalking its prey in the grass.

The Darkness moved behind him, blocking the muffled moonlight. A loud ringing filled the silent room coming from the front entrance of his suite. He woke up inhaling a large gasp of air and Darkness disappeared. Startled his arm knocked the picture frame off his nightstand and on to the hardwood floor boards. Sitting face down, his foot moving over top of it. Shivers shot from the nerves in his feet and up his spinal cord. The floor was ice cold as he walked to grab his brown housecoat.

The ringing echoed again through the small suite. Tossing the robe around himself, tying it around his waist he walked through his bedroom doorway. The front door was through his kitchen which lead into the livingroom, and the front door was directly centered in the back. He had a 32" Flatscreen Television, a small love seat and a La-Z-Boy reclining chair. The ringing echoed again, louder and louder as he moved closer to the door frame. The air was cold and still, he moved to the door and grabbed the handle.

Shivers shot through his hand again. His mind was racing: "Who the fuck would be at my door at this hour?" "The Witnesses should all be asleep...shouldn't they?" "Fuck it, I should just go to bed." The doorbell rang again. Twisting the cold, gold handle an icy blast of wind shot through the room. Papers on his refrigerator blew, the magnets holding them in place slide slightly. He pulled the door open, to pitch darkness.

Outside there was nothing but blackness. His voice stammered a bit, he turned and stopped.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Language of Eternity

There was once a voice,

Whispering at the ear of nature.

She could speak in every tongue

Languages heard, languages unheard.

Her words strong enough to ignite life

A blaze burning her single desire.

For you see, she lived alone

Believing she had to, never sharing which she gave.

The world she shaped around her,

She censured her thoughts, her words, buried the desire.

Friendship, Companionship, Love

Perhaps it was power? Or perhaps fear?

She lived upon the sky.

Her hand covering her face as she whispered life

Tears crashed against the leaves and branches.

Her agony would bring down the sky

Chemical creation, her angled desire.

Neglected Desire,

Three angers: Lust, Jealousy, Paranoia.

Possession, an emotional conclusion,

And eternity she would wait.

Until one day, in the tranquil sanctuary of bliss,

Her desire grew and the world echoed with her cries.

Intellectual possession,

She engulfed herself and created Him.

Her Sanctuary slipped away from her elementary grasp,

Her eyes opened and her lips were consumed.

There was once a voice,

Her voice, and it whispered in the ears of everything.

Reality came crashing down,

Left to wander in endless companionship.

An Irritation and a Lack of Ointment

I was sitting in class today, listening to the professor speak about his lecture when he asked the class a question. Now, I have no issue with people attempting to answer this, and no issue with people who may have misunderstand the question and may get the answer wrong. It is when the person speaks and persists that they are correct despite the fact they are obviously wrong. Not only do they speak like an idiot, but they continue to argue with the Professor.


Now this is strictly one example of this, from a classroom setting, I have encounter these same people outside of a classroom setting. These are the people who talk but do not say a god damn thing. I fail to understand this, these people. Is it that they enjoy their own voice? Or are they so dumb they fail to regard the fact that they speak with no substance?


There are people out there who do speak and do have valid arguments and speak with substances, but they are few and far between. It seems that the ones who understand and would offer insight into the problem, question, or simply the conversation stay silent. These people irritate me to a degree indescribable.


A similar issue, that is usually proposed by these same sort of people, is when they make a claim in which they have no bases nor no explanation as to why they hold that particular perception. I do understand a cultural undertaking is involved in this, but what I can not comprehend, is how they can make such a strong claim when they have no opinion?


I was in a bit of an argument with a friend of mine about politics, and political standings. They made a fairly specific claim about policies proposed by a particular set of people. Yet as I continued to defend my point of view and draw out some reasoning as to why this person held that point of view, they proved to have none. In which case they shut down the conversation. I fail to understand this, as human beings we've been given the wonderful phenomena of rational thought, why do people fail to use it? We have the ability to reason and formulate opinions, but no.


Does this irritate anyone else, or is it just me? Maybe it is I who am the problem and not what I have been exposed with. Thank you for reading.






"There exists a place within all of us, void of noise and void of colour. An area of complete tranquility and understanding, here the self we wish to be must be located. As in the world we preoccupy ourselves and cover this screaming silence with un-contemplated noise. Nothing of understandable importance has grown from our preoccupation, except more preoccupation. If we enjoy the silence, find this self, a concept of our nature grows around us. Enjoy the silence as much as the excitement in this life, and perhaps find a meaning that the rest of fail to see." - Authors note 21

"Language is the back bone of any society. Human civilizations could not strive and thrive as well as they have if it was not for uncanny ability to communicate... love your language, love others." - Authors note 04


Today while at work, I'm a Barista at Starbucks (a large chain owned coffee shop for those that do not know what it is) and this lady came to my till and she as deaf and mute. I unfortunately do not know Sign language for luckily for me a girl in line did and helped me to communicate to the lady for me. This got me to thinking though, why is it that Sign Language is not taught in school? We teach many other languages in school. I did look at the courses offered at my university to find that Sign Language is offered here, however, I would like to understand why it is not taught to students younger than those seeking Post Secondary.

I felt terrible after not being to explain why we did not have this lady's tea. It just sparked a large interest and intrigue in me because of this feeling. I am bilingual speaking both fluent English and French and I love languages, but I was never offered a course in Sign. Are there any of you who have experienced this situation? I do not understand why it is that we push these mild disabilities on the back burner, especially with our modern conception of issues which cause these disabilities.

There was another thing that upset me about this situation. It started me thinking about what if this was me, unable to communicate or figure out what was going on. Perhaps in another country unfamiliar with the language, maybe I was too close to an air horn, music was too loud of an extend period of time, or a billion other possible reasons. It would feel like you were lost, forgotten and a thousand other swirling emotions, anger, sorrow etc. How could you over come it, if not through sign language?

If you wish, please leave me your thoughts int he comment section. I'm curious if others have encountered a similar situation or agree with me. Thank you.

Child of Fire.

"There is a veil that keeps us from the knowledge of others, it is not our job to remove this veil as it is protection but much more complex is to allow the veil to speak to us for them..." - Authors note 17


A child born of flame
Citadel of fire
Cries of Weeping Willows
Forest ablaze.

Nymphs and Dryads dance
With their sulfurous child
Breath of smoking shadow
Emptiness consumed, blast of light.

The lonely void filled
Conceptual eyesight
Lost soul, condemned
Before a word spoken.